


Our Chromosomes In Sepia Tones

by dirtymattress



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, artist!zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:28:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtymattress/pseuds/dirtymattress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn’s a sculptor who finds his muse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Chromosomes In Sepia Tones

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this [prompt](http://louisarse.livejournal.com/5255.html?thread=11911#t11911) for the Zouis fic-a-thon.

Over a thousand cans line the walls of the studio.

Vintage WWII tin pots, scratched brass knuckles, metal nuts and bolts, worn down horse shoes, stolen street signs, copper tubes and other nick nacks. It’s about being authentic, taking pieces from the world trashed and forgotten and melding them into something beautiful, something thought provoking.

Which means fuck all right now because right now they look like a thousand nasty soda cans and heaps of junk scattered across the floor. Sculptures in varying states of completion lie abandoned, left to die once the vision has moved on and the brilliance of it’s potential has disappeared into nothingness. When he started university he could churn out an original piece in a week, two tops. Then he started getting bigger commissions; he could take his time, pick his work apart only to make it bigger and better, allowing the time to create a signature style. A month, two months. Whatever, his clients never complained. Now, well now he’s got six months and six figures to make a collection that will be housed in every major modern museum space in the world and what does he have? A thousand fucking cans and a coffee addiction.

His agent Liam’s been on his ass as of late. Everyone wants a preview. Everyone wants to know what the collection will feature, how many pieces, what materials he’ll favor over another, what new soldering technique he’ll invent. Everyone wants to suck his dick and all he wants is to not look at his life, his fractured pieces, the thousand fucking cans lining the floor and want to run away.

Zayn hasn’t completed a single piece in four months.

He’s depleted his current pack of cigarettes, stubbing the last one against the cast iron railing of his balcony as he stretches his legs out. The weather’s changing, it’ll be full blown winter soon and he’ll actually have to wear trousers or something when he comes out here. He’s sure his neighbors will be happy, the husband must be tired of seeing his cock every morning.

His fingers already itch for another and as he looks back into his studio space, at the rusting mess he can’t bring himself to deal with right now, he decides a walk will do him good. He hasn’t left his flat in about three days so he eventually makes his way up to his loft over the studio space pulling on whatever he can find before grabbing his keys.

He decides to stock up for the apocalypse grabbing four boxes of cigarettes, a pack of frozen waffles, one apple, seven bars of baking chocolate and that shitty coffee creamer he’s addicted to that tastes like coconut. That should at least last him the week until Liam gets back in town and will demand he leave his flat again.

He’s headed back when a shimmer catches his eye and he sees it, this odd little circle of metal the size of a vinyl record lying propped up against the brick of a building. It’s perforated like those old music box discs and bent out of shape just a bit but it looks special, looks like it used to be important. Zayn stops just in front of it, there’s no one near him on the street and nothing but a few random cans scattered around so it feels like it’s here for a reason, like he was meant to find it.

“Oi! And what do you think you’re doing? Up! That’s mine, go find your own stuff!”

This. This boy, he can’t be older than 20, comes walking up behind Zayn and swats at his shoulder, knocking him off balance. His nose looks like a little button as it’s scrunched up with his frown and his teeth are snarling down at Zayn as he huffs and snatches up the disc before stuffing it into the bag in his hands. He quickly grabs the empty cans on the ground by Zayn’s feet before sticking his tongue out and turning to walk away.

Zayn is frozen for a second, watching the boy before he finally gets back up on his feet. “Hold up!”

“Don’t wanna hear it, mate!” The boys calls without looking back but Zayn follows him. It’s not like he’s walking fast or anything, he’s moseying down the street looking low to the ground for what Zayn guesses are more trash.

“That- what was that disc, in your bag?”

The boy bends down to pick up something before turning back to Zayn, inspecting the steel hook he’d found curiously. He shrugs his shoulders before dropping it in his bag and finally looking up to meet Zayn’s eyes. “Huh?”

Blue.

No. Cloudless skies. Lagoon waters. Cerulean sea glass. Summer delphinium’s. Bombay Sapphire at dusk… he’s blinding. He’s a tiny little thing, inches shorter than Zayn and practically drowning in the faded green parka hanging over his shoulders. His jeans are stained but fitted, cuffed at the ankle to show the knotted string anklets braided across tan skin. His threadbare t-shirt is fitted at the dip of his waist, stretched across his shoulders. There’s a cranberry beanie covering chestnut hair and his old vans have a small hole in the toe. He has little hands and blunt fingers, soft pink lips, a sculpted chin, long honey lashes fanned over sharp cheekbones and tight lines at the crease of his eyes.

He looks tired, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and a curved eyebrow arched high on his forehead. Zayn thinks he has a story to tell, has a mouth that could tear him apart and hands that could possibly put him back together again.

“Are you on drugs?”

Zayn blinks at his words, watching as his shoulders go tense and he takes a tiny step back. “What? No?”

The smaller boy tightens his hand on his bag and takes another step back, eyes looking over Zayn and his dirty jeans and ratty t-shirt. He probably looks homeless, which, whatever.

“Well what do you want?”

“What’s your name?”

He frowns, button nose and crinkly eyes, before rolling his eyes and turning to leave again. “I really haven’t got the time-“

“Wait! Um-” Zayn feels flustered and out of his comfort zone but he doesn’t want this, this absolute stranger with blue eyes and calloused hands to leave. “Can I have that metal piece? The one you picked up? Off the ground. Can I- may I have it?”

“Uh, no.” He scoffs and starts to walk off again. Zayn follows.

“Wait! Why not?”

“Cause it’s mine? I found it, go away.”

Zayn reaches out to grab at his arm but he flinches away, turning abruptly so Zayn almost runs him over. “What is your deal? I said no. They won’t give you more than 15p for it anyway so if you’ll kindly fuck off!”

“I build stuff, like, out of metal. That’s,” Zayn coughs as the boys just stares at him unimpressed and bored. “That’s what I do, I’m a sculptor? I’m working on a, uh…”

“Congrats, man. Really. But I kinda need the money so…” The boy let’s it trail off as he tries to turn to leave again but Zayn moves faster, stepping in front of him.

“I can pay you! 20 quid, yeah?”

The boy looks over him again, eyes wary and cautious as he probably takes in the vintage Rolex on Zayn’s wrist, the pretentious french cigarette tucked over his ear, the shape of an iPhone in his front pocket. “20 quid? For a piece of trash…”

“20 quid.” Zayn repeats, pulling a couple bills rumpled up from his pocket. The boy watched him silently, looking over his shoulder nervously as Zayn tries to flatten out the bills. “Do you, I mean, would you have anything else I’d be interested in?”

That was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because the boy jumps back from Zayn again.

“Fuck off, I don’t do that shit…”

Zayn almost chokes from the accusation, throwing his hands up in defense. “No! Fuck, no, no. I meant in your bag! Like, shit no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright?  I saw you had other stuff in your bag. Metal stuff. Fuck, not.. I’m not trying to pick you up, Jesus. I would never.”

Zayn looks up from his clammy, fumbling hands to see the boy’s head tilted curiously, a tiny smirk on his lips. “Okay. Alright. Calm down, yeah? It’s just… never had someone try to buy my loot off me.”

The tension lifts and Zayn let’s his shoulders drop, scrubbing his hand down his face.

“Why are you picking up trash anyway?”

The boy looks down at his feet, kicking his toe into the cement. Zayn’s never been a man to have a fetish but the arch of the bone and the pull of ligaments at his ankles are, well, they’re beautiful. The curve of his calves in his jeans and the outline of his knees and the pull of denim over his thighs. Zayn’s not listening to a word he says. Zayn needs a cigarette.

“-need the money. They pay more for metal versus like plastic and glass and… whatever. So…”

Oh.  _Oh._

“Are you homeless?” The second it’s out of his mouth he feels like an idiot because that social filter he’s supposed to have is apparently broken and he almost whimpers when he see’s those blue eyes go cold. “Wait, damn, I-“

“Fuck off.” He drops his bag at Zayn’s feet before snatching the money from his slack fingers and storming off down the street. Zayn doesn’t follow him this, just takes the bag and heads home.

x

Zayn overdoses on coffee and cigarettes for the next week, buys 12 different shades of blue paint because none are quite right and comes into his fist to sun kissed skin and thin pink lips every night.

He finishes four pieces of his collection. Liam is ecstatic.

x

Niall’s really excited about a show he got to preview last night.

It’s something about bottles caps from beer brands all over the world and meerkats. Maybe meerkats made out of bottle caps? Or meer cats wearing bottle caps? Or maybe it was just cats…

“… the way she used the paintbrush bristles so create this illusion of fur, fucking incredible…” Okay, maybe there were no bottle caps?

“Sound’s sick, Ni.”

Niall knows he’s not really listening. Knows he’s been too much in his head all morning, knows Zayn hasn’t been sleeping again, knows he hasn’t finished another piece in two weeks. Knows he can’t concentrate long enough to finish a sentence let alone listen to Niall recount his latest trip to Thailand. Niall knows.

“You’re uninspired.”

Zayn looks up at that, at least recognizing the comment was aimed towards him. They’re about two minutes from Zayn’s studio and his fingers fidget for a cigarette.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because the Zayn I know would have picked up that old bike chain we passed two blocks ago. Hell, you would have at least looked at it.”

Zayn glances behind them because damnit, he’d been looking for an extra one of those. But Niall was right, he’d barely found anything recently. Maybe he hadn’t been looking.

“What happened?”

Zayn should lie. Say he’s under too much pressure, say he needs glasses or something stupid like that. Saying he worked best under pressure usually did the trick, his best works usually comes just days before a deadline. But.

“He had ankles.”

Niall stops walking and just stares at him, who looks everywhere but at the blue eyed boy he calls his best friend. The color’s all wrong, too much gold.

“Ankles.” Niall dead pans, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“I called him homeless?”

“H-homeless?”

“I can’t think straight, Ni. I can’t even remember what he looks like anymore, just flashes of color and angles and and and the second I forgot his face I shut down. I’ve completely shut down.”

“Homeless… I leave you alone for one month and you fall in love with a prostitute.”

“No! Not a prostitute, Jesus. I didn’t sleep with him. What’s wrong with you all?”

Niall starts walking again and Zayn runs up to join him as they turn down another street. The blonde boy runs his hand through his hair before sneaking a side glance back at Zayn.

“Ankles?”

“I can’t even explain what’s happening to me right now. I’m losing it. I’ve lost it. It’s been lost.”

“Go find him again?”

“I don’t even know his name, Ni, and I insulted the kid last time he’d probably punch me in the face if I ever saw him again.”

“I bet a punch in the face would inspire you.”

“I bet a punch in the face would shut you up.” Zayn grumbles as he runs his hands down his face, squashing his cheeks between his palms. They’re passing a small crowd as a guy performs songs out on the sidewalk when Zayn see’s a flash of faded string and tan skin. He doesn’t think twice about it though and keeps walking until he notices that Niall had stopped with the crowd.

The guys is tall and lanky with chocolate curls and a blood red mouth. Zayn can’t see much through the crowd but his voice is quite good and he can hear coins hitting the inside of a guitar case. He finishes his song, saying a round of  _thank you’s_  to his small crowd as they start to move on. Zayn’s turning to walk away when he see’s the other boy, slumped and folded on the ground with a guitar in his hands and a gorgeous smile on his lips, _those lips_.

Zayn’s breathing hitches as the boy looks up and they lock eyes for the first time in nearly a month. It takes a moment, but.

“I remember you.”

“Yeah, uh..”

“Harry. Ha-Hazza.” The smaller boys whines, smacking his friend on the calf before looking back up at Zayn expectantly. The taller boy, milk skinned and grin lazy, looks down then up at Zayn and Niall standing before them. “This is that guy I was telling you about, yeah? 20 quid for a piece of metal.”

The taller boys brows disappear under his curly hair as he looks over the two boys in front of him appraisingly. “Louis says you’re an artist.”

_Louis_

“Oi! Putting words in my mouth again, you prat.” Louis looks up at Zayn and smiles, scrunching up his kitten nose. “I didn’t say that.”

“No. You’re right. Zayn is an artist, a fine one at that. Gonna introduce me, mate?” Niall elbows Zayn in the ribs when Zayn doesn’t respond, eyes still locked with Louis’ as he sits folded up with his guitar lying in his lap, the strap pooled between his legs.

Harry steps forward then, awkwardly wiping his palm on his skin tight jeans before reaching to shake Niall’s hand. “He’s Louis. I’m Harry, pleasure.”

“I’m Niall. He’s Zayn. He’s obsessed with your friend here.”

Zayn can literally feel the blood flushing from his skin as he watches Louis snort and slap his palm to his face, trying to hide his cackles. He’s incredibly loud for such a little thing and his laugh is boisterous and devilish as he flashes his pointy teeth, falling back against the wall as he giggles his way to breathlessness.

“I- I’m not. No, wait, I-”

“You’re his muse.” Niall interrupts, thoroughly enjoying watching his best friend have a panic attack in front of them all. Niall has no filter, you see. It’s all very juvenile, Zayn’s never going to talk to Niall again. Like, ever.

“His what?” Louis hiccups, trying to calm down but failing horribly as Harry kicks him in the thigh.

“You’re so rude, Lou.” Harry mumbles, shaking his hair out and sweeping it to the side. “He’s an idiot. Might wanna get a new muse there, mate. ‘fraid this one’s a waste of space.”

“You’re his muse. Honest to God. He can’t work, you see.” Niall continues casually with a hand on Zayn’s shoulder. Zayn wants to push him away but he also wants to go crawl in a hole and die, so. “He has this huge gig, I mean huge, been working on it for months. Problem is, he couldn’t create anything before he met some bloke on the street, that’s your friend here, and he hasn’t been able to create anything since him either.”

Louis’ not laughing anymore, just staring as Zayn fumbles into his pocket for his lighter and pulls the cigarette that’s been hanging over his ear. Zayn’s watching his chest rise and fall, trying to memorise the mechanics of his collarbones, the constellation of freckles that paint his neck, the dusting of stubble at his chin. Zayn feels like a creep, an obsessive and potentially head over heels creep and he knows Louis can see everything playing out on his face. He probably thinks Zayn’s pathetic. Because Zayn is pathetic.

“You bein’ serious?” Harry asks, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looks down at Louis who’s now looking off and away, anywhere but Zayn. There’s tension in the air, thick and suffocating and Zayn wants to leave but he can’t move. Fuck Niall, like, seriously. Shut up.

They all stand around in silence for a moment or two before Harry dry coughs and steps in front of Louis in a defensive gesture and Zayn’s not sure why.

“I’m not trying to, like, steal your boyfriend-“

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Louis sighs, eyes studying the ground.

“Not his boyfriend, no. But we have to go, get up Lou.” Harry says in his low, gravelly voice, taking Louis’ guitar from him and locking it up in the case. Louis let’s him, arms falling limp at his side as he thumbs at the seam of his jeans.

Niall senses the downward spiral the conversation has taken and steps forward. “You should let Zayn draw you or something, yeah. He’s really good.” Louis and Zayn both look at him with furrowed brows but Niall keeps going. “Brilliant, really. You seem pretty interesting, right Zayn?”

Louis looks over in Zayn’s general direction, silently asking for an explanation. “I draw? Paint? I would, uh, like to paint you. For my collection. If- if you have the time. I’ll pay you, or not? I… find you interesting. You’re life must be- I don’t know. You know what? Never mind. Niall, let’s go. Bye, guys, sorry about this. Nice to meet you-“

“… okay.” It’s cold and short and nothing like the loud giggles and sunshine from just a few minutes ago.

Zayn stops and finds Louis’ eyes. Honey freckles and cinnamon lashes and  _blue blue icey blue._ “Okay?”

“Okay.”

x

Zayn doesn’t know where they’re going.

He finds Louis sitting on the curb at the corner near where they’d met just the day before. He’s biting his nails, knee jumping as if he was the nervous one here. When Zayn gets close he jumps up with just a nod to acknowledge Zayn before he turns and starts walking North.

He looks different, hair a little shinier and his clothes a little less… worn, perhaps. He looks, and Zayn hates to think it, but he looks cleaner. Not that he had been dirty before, but digging through trash bins must not be the cleanest gig on the block. He doesn’t wait for Zayn to catch up with him and continues walking north, arms swinging at his side. He’s once again wearing that giant parka, too big and too heavy for the weather and the same fitted jeans. This time he’s in a large faded t-shirt though that hangs off his collarbones, some old rock band Zayn’s seen around but never heard. His hair is out this time, straight and swept over to the side leaving his little pink tipped ears to fend for themselves.

“I thought you were a sculptor?”

Zayn almost misses it, too busy trailing his eyes over the boy’s narrow shoulders. “Huh?”

“When we met, the first time,” Louis stops, turning to look Zayn in the eye finally. “You said you were a sculptor, not a painter. A sculptor.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“So why are we doing this?”

“I… do both. Different mediums but still art, no?” Zayn is lying through his teeth. Zayn can’t draw for shit. Zayn can’t even doodle on a napkin. Louis can tell, he has to with the way Zayn’s eyes are shifting around nervously, but he doesn’t say anything.

Louis just shrugs and turns back around to continue on. “You’re the professional here.”

Zayn knew this was a bad idea. Niall had handed him a large sketch pad and a 99p watercolor kit from Tesco and had sent him on his way. _Paint him_ , he’s said.  _Stare at him for a while then come back and do your fucking job. You can’t bring him back here and show him a bunch of scraps of metal, mate. Sit there, stare at him for a few hours, draw a stick figure, then leave.  Greatest plan ever. You owe me. I’m a genius. Wow._

Louis’ not an idiot, he’s gonna know something is up but Zayn can’t back out now. He’s feeling lighter than he has in weeks. His fingers are itching for the cheap plastic paint brush in his bag and his eyes are catching every single color Louis is giving off. The rough indigo of his jeans, the nimble ochre of his wrists, the creamy rose of his cheeks. He’s seeing every curve and sharp edge he’s been sculpted from even if it’s hidden under that wall of a jacket. The way his body tilts lazily to avoid the trash can in the road, the angle his feet point when he walks, the workings of his limbs when he scratches at the back of his neck.

“Louis, where are we going?” Louis just keeps walking, ignoring Zayn. He tries again after a few moments of silence. “I mean, I have a studio if you wanted to-”

“Nah. I wanted to give you the whole thing, ya know?”

“Whole thing?”

“Homeless kid, living on the street, drugs, sex, grit, whatever, the whole thing. Whatever you want. You want to capture what it’s like and tell the story of my shitty- no, sorry,  _interesting_  life, figured I’d let you see it. Make it more authentic, yeah?” By the end his voice has dropped to a mocking laugh and Zayn doesn’t know what’s so funny.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Yes it is. You want to exploit me to make your art.” Louis turns to him again, his eyes bright and challenging. “Listen, mate, I don’t care alright? Just, be honest about it.”

“Louis, that is not why I’m here. Hey.” Zayn grabs his arm before he can walk away again. “I promise you, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Yeah, okay.” Zayn knows he doesn’t believe him but what else can he say?  _I think you’re beautiful and I want to touch you but instead I’ll take my yearning and sadness and forever ingrain you in my art?_  Oh, okay. Sike.

Louis pulls away from him and looks around to where they are before stalking across the street and up the stairs of an abandoned warehouse. Zayn hadn’t noticed but they’d made their way deep into the industrial district, broken glass and empty streets surround them everywhere he looks and for the first time he questions his safety. But Louis’ waiting for him at the top of the stairs, hand holding open the propped back door and Zayn follows him as he hitches his backpack further up his shoulders.

The abandoned warehouse is really a makeshift shanty town built inside an old textile factory. There’s hundreds of little room and houses built out of plastic and tarp and rope and cardboard. The building looks run down and decrepit, the lifts long out of service and the smell is so pungent and strong of piss and dirt and  _poverty_  Zayn’s eyes start to burn.

There are condoms discarded on the sticky floor, at one turn Zayn can hear the moans and grunts of sex and just a turn later he can hear a grown man crying. There are trash cans holding fires, malnourished dogs running free, preaching addicts tweaking off cheap heroin and women with no teeth counting their collections of radios, hair brushes and other random trinkets. Zayn’s fucking terrified. Louis isn’t affected, he weaves his way through the narrow passage ways past the hundreds of people milling about, ignoring the looks others are giving both boys until they make it to the far stairwell.

On the second floor it’s much less crowded but still suffocating. Zayn’s never been more grateful for the 3200 sq feet of freedom back at his flat. There are more children on this floor, mothers and children and fathers in their larger dwellings. They eye Zayn cautiously but smile at Louis, some of the children run to him, nipping at his ankles like puppies but he just ruffles their hair and keeps walking.

They know him, Zayn realises. They call him  _Lou Bear_  and they tell him about their dolls and they ask where Hazza is, little hands trying to crawl up his sides. Louis pauses when he see’s a smaller boy crying, his waifish body folded up and covered in newspaper as he sits inside a grocery cart with the wheels taken off. It resembles a baby’s crib and Zayn shudders at the realization. Louis glances back at him from the corner of his eye before walking over to the boy and crouching low so he can see through the metal bars.

They talk quietly, Louis sticking his fingers through the bars like worms to playfully poke at the boys scraped knees. It takes a few moments but the boy stops crying just in time for Louis to stand and pick him up from the cart, resting the boy’s weight against his hip.

“Do you mind?”

Zayn’s a bit stunned, overwhelmed by this other world he’s now found himself in. He shakes his head and looks over at the kids who are still standing around them before jumping to catch up with Louis again.

Two more flights of stairs and Louis opens a door up to the roof of the building, the sun is high in the sky now and the walls are lined with black birds who don’t even flinch when the door slams closed behind them.

“Sorry, bout him.” Louis carefully places the boy down on the roof, he hiccups a bit and stays close to Louis’ side, hiding his face from Zayn. Louis runs his fingers through the small childs hair before lightly cupping his ears. “His mum… we haven’t seen her in a few days, ‘s all.”

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Zayn just nods. What do you say to that, to a little boy who lives this life? All Zayn can do is nod, pushing the creeping grief down and away.

“So, this alright? It’s a bit crowded down there, didn’t want you to get too uncomfortable. But you saw how it was…”

Again, Zayn can’t do much but nod and luckily that’s enough. Louis takes the boy’s hand, Luke, and asks him to help find  _the most perfect, most favorite spot_  on the roof. He eyes Zayn warily but slowly starts to pull Louis away to the opposite side that looks over the train tracks that rumble through every hour or so. When Luke has made his decision, Louis looks over expectantly and Zayn puts down his bag slowly.

The view is beautiful from here, he can see the edge of his neighborhood a few blocks over and all of central London even further. It’s a heavy feeling, knowing these people were all stuffed up in this building just a few minutes from where he lived. Knowing that these families and beautiful boys with pink lips and blue eyes had to live this life.

Louis seems to respect the silence that’s fallen over them and leads Luke over to a large exposed air duct before he lifts the boy up and sets him on it. Louis jumps up on it as well, pulling the boy into his lap before looking back to Zayn for approval. “Wait, do you want him in it?”

“Yeah, ‘s fine.”

“Okay. Um…” Louis looks around as Luke leans back heavily against Louis’ chest and pops his thumb into his mouth. “Where do you want us?”

“Right there. That-that’s perfect, just. Right there.” Louis meets his eyes straight on for a few seconds, his expression blank before he just nods and playfully pulls Luke’s thumb from his mouth making the boy giggle.

Zayn takes that as his cue to set up. He pulls out the large sketch pad, his bundle of pencils, the cheap watercolor set and a bottle of water. There’s no chair up there so he settles down on the ground a few feet away from the boys, sketch pad flipped to a clean sheet and propped up out of their sight.

When he looks back up Luke is nearly asleep in Louis’ lap, body slumped heavily against the crook he’s made with his arm and Louis’ heavy parka covering his dangling legs. His eyes are low and his thumb is lodged in his mouth as Louis’ fingers scratch at his scalp. Zayn looks further up and catches Louis watching him as he bites on the inside of his cheek. They stay like that for a few seconds before he blinks and looks away.

“Do you have any music? Or…”

Shit. He feels awkward. Zayn’s already made him feel awkward. Oh course he didn’t think to bring music, that would be the intelligent thing to do.

“No, sorry.” Louis just nods, scratching at his arm. Zayn realises he’s never seen Louis’ arms. They’re solid and tan, just like the rest of him. He’s not built, just a soft curve of an established bicep, but he can see the veins in his forearm through the light golden hair and the jut of bone at his thin wrist and he thinks it’s beautiful. Louis and his slim shoulders and tight chest and soft neck, he’s just this beautiful thing that Zayn wants to recreate a thousand times over because this boy, this man before him is everything he’s ever tried to create but failed. Zayn is unworthy and looking at Louis he finds it laughable that he ever (even for a second) got caught up in his own hype.

Because Louis is art. True art. Not oil on canvas or pencil on paper.

He’s art in the way he carries himself, proud and protective but he carries a softness in his eyes and stress on his shoulders as if he wants them there, as if he asked for this life. Zayn knows he didn’t, no one would. Knows God would never create something so beautiful to see it go to waste. It’s the bend of his knuckles, the stretch of his toes, the dip of his waist, the curl of his lashes that give it away, give away the divine’s true intentions to make something of this collection of flesh and blood and hopes and fears and light and dark.

God would never let a piece of art go to waste.

“What are you thinking about?”

Zayn coughs as Louis’ voice rips through his thoughts, he looks down at his still empty canvas and then back up to the boys. He looks amused, either at Zayn staring at him or at Zayn being a complete idiot. It’s debatable, really.

“Uh, nothing.” He busies himself, uncapping the water bottle and dipping his brush in it before selecting an unimpressive yellow.

“Is it what you expected?”

Louis has a scar on his elbow. It’s pink and slightly raised and looks years old but it’s there and Zayn wants to run his fingers over it, memorise it like braille. “Is what like I expected?”

“This.” Louis motions his free hand around them before scratching his nose and looking down at Zayn. “Us. This place. This world. Is it what you expected?”

“No. It’s worse, so much worse.” The tiniest smile curls at the corner of Louis’ lips before he ducks his head down to nuzzle his nose alone Luke’s sleep warm skin. He looks open and relaxed and so soft. “Why- I mean, how did you get here?”

“Harry. He, um, I met him out on the streets. He was with his mum and they kinda took me in. She brought us here and I guess we never left.”

“Are you happy?”

Louis snorts and narrows his eyes at Zayn. “Mate, what kind of fucking question is that? _Are you happy?_  Are you mad? Look around you, there’s no happiness here.”

Zayn just nods looking back down at the still blank canvas in front of him. He’s an idiot. He shouldn’t be here. He should leave. He should totally leave. He’s gonna leave.

“Are you happy?”

Zayn sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and let’s his shoulders drop. “Like, sometimes.”

“Why only sometimes?”

“Why not?” Louis just watches him and says nothing, biting the inside of his cheek. “Is anyone really happy? Probably not.”

They sit in silence. Louis’ bouncing the heel of his shoe off the air duct and picking at his nails. Zayn’s just watching him like the creep he is. He’s drawn a sun with blue rays and green eyes on his sketch book. It look nothing like Louis. He’s an idiot.  He sneaks a glance up, Louis’ eyes are drifting over Zayn’s head to look into the distance and he just flips the page over to start again. It feels like hours before Louis speaks again.

“Harry’s happy. Sometimes. Truly happy. Even after everything he still smiles more than anyone I’ve ever seen. It’s incredible, really. He doesn’t deserve this life. He should have been born royalty, that boy.” Zayn listens silently, scared to speak and risk Louis stopping. He wants Louis to talk forever, he thinks if he ever gets to do this again he’ll bring a book and just ask Louis to read to him for hours. Something exciting and animated so he can hear the highs and the lows, feel the sorrow and joy of the characters through Louis’ tongue.

“You don’t either, you know.”

“Don’t what?”

“Deserve this life. Y-you don’t fit here. It’s all wrong.”

Louis just rolls his eyes, annoyed, as he tucks Luke closer to his body. “Yeah, well…”

“I didn’t want to do this because you’re homeless, Louis. It was never my intention to make you feel that way. I honestly don’t give a fuck about that. When I said you were interesting I meant you were… like, you. Um. You glow?” Zayn won’t dare look up, doesn’t want to see the look on Louis’ face. He pretends to paint strokes of color across the sketch pad.

“Even when I met you on the street, that first time. It’s like, you’re this current of energy? It just rolls off of you. You’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful and you don’t even know it, that’s the craziest part. The light hits you different, I swear to God, I don’t even know what it is. I- I went home that night and I locked myself in my studio for a week. I just worked, didn’t think about it I just did it and it’s the best work I’ve ever done. You left me inspired and charged after just five minutes in your presence. It was unreal and then you were gone and so was my mind. I.. haven’t finished anything in weeks…”

The train comes rattling through at that moment, horn loud and blaring, ruining the quiet that had settled over them. It quickly passes though and Luke doesn’t even stir from Louis’ lap. Zayn huffs, running his fingers through his hair and he flips the page of his sketch book even though the pages are still empty. He distracts himself from Louis’ continued silence by checking the point of each of his pencils for no reason whatsoever.

Minutes roll by. They feel like hours and Zayn can feel the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades and at the nape of his neck. This was a bad idea. He should leave. He should totally leave. He’s gonna leave.

“Fuck… I- I don’t understand you.”

Zayn just shrugs, glancing up to find Louis watching him. No, not watching, staring, like Zayn has five heads or something. He shifts nervously, quickly looking away again.

“There’s nothing to understand. I just- I’m not fetishizing your life or exploiting or whatever you said. I would never do that. I just think you’re beautiful. Even the things you probably hate, I think they’re perfect. You’re like this untouchable… this untouchable  _thing_  that I want. I want it. You. I want you and I can’t get over it. I’ve tried and, it’s just- I can’t and it’s driving me crazy. I mean, I’ll probably never see you again because you obviously think I’m mental or whatever so fuck it. It’s not like I’m in love with you or anything, because I’m not. But, like, I could be. And that scares me, you know? Because I don’t know you. Like, at all. But I don’t care, because I could fall in love with you. I think you’re fucking exquisite and I’m selfish because I just want to take all of you, your time and attention, all of it. And who does that? An idiot, that’s who. I’m an idiot but, yeah. That’s what it is. That’s it, that’s all there is to it. It is what it is. I, uh…”

Zayn groans, refusing to look up at Louis. He scrubs his hand down his face before picking up his pencil and scribbles a few words down. They’re messy and probably misspelled but he can hardly breathe let alone think so he shuts the sketch pad and leaves it on the ground before snatching up his now empty backpack and leaving.

Louis is frozen in place as he watches Zayn go, the metal door slamming shut behind him. Luke stirs at that, his mood seemingly lifted from his short nap. Louis pats his hip, he can’t speak just yet, can’t seem to find his words, but Luke slips from his lap and goes to pick up Zayn’s abandoned sketch pad where it’s lying next to his supplies he’d left as well.

Luke picks up the pad and Louis nods his head to bring it over and the little boy does, one tiny fist rubbing at his eyes before popping his thumb back in his mouth. Luke hands Louis the pad before making his way back to the watercolor set and pencils.

Louis’ hands are shaking and he holds the pad in hand for a second before he slowly lifts up the cover. A 100 pound note falls from the crease and Louis doesn't even bother to pick it up where it's fallen to the floor. The first page is empty, absolutely empty and he frowns before turning the page and finding the childlike sun drawn with the watercolors. He runs his fingertips over the drying paper and tilts his head as he turns the page over again. It’s empty. They’re all empty. He turns page after page until he’s nearly a quarter through the book when he see’s it. The small chicken scratch zayn calls handwriting and he gasps slamming the book closed again with a breathless huff.

_i lied, i can’t draw_

_i just wanted to spend time with you_

x

27 pieces. 27 fucking pieces.

Liam’s been on the phone with Moscow, New York, London, Brazil, basically half the world for the past two days rearranging their showing schedules. Everyone wants more. More pieces, more time, more space, more tickets, more Zayn. The preview he gave last week was a success. Success may be an understatement considering he’s already been offered commissions in the millions for his next installations. That’s for another time though, can’t get too ahead of himself.

27 pieces. Some are the size of his arm, others over six feet tall. He’s not going to show all 27, of course. Some are too personal, some he can’t stand to part with. Doesn’t want strangers to see what he see’s, doesn’t want them to touch his piece and touch what’s his, only his.

Some aren’t even finished, his preview had only been of three pieces but that was enough. He can hear Liam out on the street negotiating in some language he’ll never learn, his voice filtering in through the high windows. Zayn’s in old jeans and a dirty oil stained t-shirt, his welding helmet discarded on the other side of the studio as he quickly melts a rod down to join two pieces of copper together.

This is what it’s about, locking himself away and just letting it happen. The materials are here, the ideas are here. Zayn’s been working like crazy for weeks to meet his deadline and then some. What he allowed three weeks to complete he finished in a week in a half and since then he’s been working to get Louis out of his system because he’s still on hyperdrive. Still dealing with the tunnel vision, the itching fingers, the muscle memory. He doesn’t regret it, not when it produced some of the greatest pieces he’s ever made. If he ever see’s Louis again he’ll tell him thank you. Thank you for turning his world upside down, thank you for giving him something to strive for.

The buzzer for his door goes off and he can barely hear it over the music he’s playing and the click click clicking of the flames as he welds larger pieces together. He let’s it go, Liam’s right outside and he can handle it. He shuffles some of his things around, taking a large piece made of soldered silver cuffs across the room when he finally hears the door open. He settles the piece down, pulling off his gloves before turning around.

The door to his studio is pushed open and Louis’ standing there, eyes wide and face nervous as he takes in the space. It’s intimidating at first, at this stage of production it looks like a mix between a junkyard and a torture chamber, smells like a steel mill and is about 30 degrees even though it’s early winter.

Louis brings his eyes to Zayn, who’s standing in the middle of his studio dirty and sweaty and running on coffee and chocolate and lust. They just stare at eachother for a minute or two before Louis steps into the studio and turns away to close the door behind him. When he turns, his hands are pushed deep into the pockets of his beloved parka and his lips are bitten red with nerves.

“This alright?”

“Y-yeah, no. Of course.” Zayn sputters, taking a step forward before stopping again. Louis’ here and he’s short circuiting. Doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t know what to say. He decides to sit down, feeling his way to a stool with his hands, afraid to take his eyes off of Louis or else he’ll disappear. Louis’ shoulders relax slightly when he can see Zayn’s nerves nearly choking him. He sends him a small smile before looking away.

“It’s amazing in here. This whole place yours?”

Zayn nods.

“It’s… amazing. You did all of these?”

Zayn blushes, ruffling his hair like the bashful five year old child he feels like right now. Zayn nods.

“Wow. Zayn, really. Wow.”

Zayn shrugs, looking down before quickly looking back up at Louis. He can’t waste a single second. Louis nods this time, walking further into the studio space towards the more finished pieces.

“I told Harry what you said- what you did. I told him you were crazy. Blind. Absolutely insane.” Louis glances over his shoulder to see Zayn watching him then turns back to the piece in front of him. “Do you know what he said?”

Zayn’s still a stunned mess so he just shakes his head, watching as Louis rings his hands as he nervously continues through the studio. Zayn wonders if he can see it, can see his reflection scattered throughout the room, his influence dripping through the floorboards. He supposes he can’t…

“Hazza said I was an idiot.” He huffs a small laugh there, fingers dancing along a sheet of untouched iron. “Said I was an idiot and that I probably embarrassed you and that I was a fool. He said that I shouldn’t have let you walk away. Should have chased after you…” Louis looks up then, meeting Zayn’s steady gaze. The tips of his ears are a soft pink from the heat and Zayn’ fingers twitch. “He asked me if I believed what you said, all those crazy things you said. I said no, because… because I don’t. But, you see, then he asked me if I thought youbelieved what you said. Like, if you really felt all those things and…”

“I do.”

“I- yeah, I know. I knew you did, I could see it on your face. It was just, I mean, no one’s ever… people don’t just say that. To other people. To me. People don’t do that, you know that right?”

“I don’t really care what other people do, Louis.”

“No, yeah, right.” He nods, feet still moving around the space. He disappears behind stacks of junk and some of the bigger pieces but he always reappears. Zayn holds his breath every time.

“I don’t. Not really… I just wanted to be honest, wanted you to know what I see when I look at you even if you don’t see it yourself.”

“I…” Louis sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and looks away, focusing on a large piece in front of him. It’s one of Zayn’s favorites and he bites down on his lips to stop his smile. Louis runs his fingertips along the seam of metal, soft touches as if it’s breakable. “What’s this then?”

“That piece?” Zayn gets up from his chair and makes his way over, stopping just short of Louis, giving him his space still.

“Yeah. It’s nice? Don’t know much about art, if I’m honest.”

“This piece,” Zayn leans his body against the piece, resting his forehead against the cool metal for just a second before looking back at Louis. “This is you. It’s one of my favorites. You should have seen Liam, Liam’s my agent, he nearly fainted first time he saw it. I made this right after I met you.”

“Me?” The frown on Louis’ face is so cute Zayn want to lick it right off his face.

“Yeah, it’s uh…” Zayn coughs, running his palm over his chest before tucking it under his other arm. With his free hand he gestures to the thin gap in the center, “this is you. The space between your, um, between your thighs.”

Instantly, Louis’ hand jerks back and slaps against his chest. He chokes on a laugh as his eyes go wide and his mouth drops open before glancing down at his legs and stepping so his legs are closed. “You’re lying!”

Louis is smiling.  _Grinning._ Absolutely beaming and he’s smiling at Zayn and Zayn feels tears prickle his eyes because it’s overwhelming yet the greatest thing he’s ever seen in his life. He shakes his head to Louis’ accusation before turning around and motioning to another piece just a few feet away, “your shoulders.” A few more feet, “the line of your jaw, i’m still working on that one.”

Louis follows him around silently, fingers running over every piece of art and it’s corresponding body part. Zayn can tell that Louis doesn’t get it, he can’t see the ripples of his forearms and the curl of his lashes in the stiff pieces and that’s okay. Because Zayn can see it, he can remember the feeling of picking out and moulding every single street sign that makes of the dip of his waist. He can still feel the tension in his neck from welding every single iron bar that makes up the swirl at the crown of Louis’ head.

Zayn allows his senses to absorb what’s happening. The scent of coconut and metal swirling around Louis, the pink of his cheeks, the paleness of his usually tan skin, the rough finish of the rods under his fingertips, the mixture of Louis’ soft breathing mixing in with the Maxwell playlist still running from the stereo, the taste of too sweet coffee and chocolate on his tongue as he wets his bottom lip.

 _Whenever Wherever Whatever_  croons softly in the background and Zayn takes a deep breath, just letting it all settle. He wants to reach out, touch Louis, pull him in. But maybe that’s not allowed. He looks down at himself, dirty and a mess and he wipes his hands on his shirt, oil mixing with flux paste and chalk. When he looks up Louis’ facing him, eyes pouring out some emotion that Zayn can’t name and he just stands there as Louis takes a step forward, their shoes knocking together.

Louis’ still small, even smaller in his too big parka he must be burning up in. Zayn doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t want to disrupt whatever’s building. Louis is quiet, eyes searching Zayn’s face and neck and shoulder as he ghosts his hands up Zayn’s chest but never touching. He looks so nervous, like Zayn would possibly ever deny him anything.

“Are you some kind of murder? Luring young boys in only to kill them and eat them or something?” It’s barely a whisper but Zayn can’t help but laugh, his breathing coming out in huffs against Louis’ face, making his hair flutter with it. Zayn shakes his head no and brings his hand up to settle at Louis’ neck. It’s so soft and delicate in his palm, skin hot as he trails his thumb along the edge of his jaw. It’s the softest thing he’s touched in days, maybe in his whole life. “So you’re just… this perfect? What’s the catch?”

Zayn bites his lip, trying to tone down the grin that’s threatening to take over his whole face. Louis’ eyes follow the motion and Zayn hesitates before dipping down to catch their lips together. Louis pushes into it, hands gripping the collar of this shirt instantly, pulling Zayn further into his body. Zayn’s thumb brushes over the joint of Louis’ jaw and down his throat as the softest moan escapes his mouth.

“No catch.” Zayn mumbles between their lips and Louis pulls away, face flushed and eyes wild as they roam over Zayn. “No catch, just me. Hopelessly pining over you-”

Louis cuts him off, launching himself at Zayn and forcing him back a foot or two. Zayn can’t stop grinning, hardly kissing back because this boy is in his arms and it’s fucking amazing. Louis pecks around his chin and quickly across his cheek before wrapping his arms around Zayn’s neck and licking into his mouth. He tastes like bitter tea and peppermint and it’s a taste Zayn will never forget as he steadies them by Louis’ hips, pulling the shorter boy as close as he can get.

“You’re. Insane. You know that?” Louis pants, pecking Zayn’s lips between each word.

“So I’ve been told.” Zayn leaves a chaste kiss against his lips once more before pulling away, hands at Louis’ elbows. “Wait, Lou, how did you even find me?”

“Oh, um.” He blushes, settling down from his tip toes to look up at Zayn with a bashful smile. “Harry took me to the library and we googled you? How embarrassing.” He covers his eyes with his hand and pouts even though his lips are still curved into a goofy smile. Zayn pulls his hand away and weaves their fingers together. “Turns out you’re kind of a big deal or whatever so Harry found Liam’s number through your agency and we called him and, like, explained everything so Liam gave me your address… he’s outside, told me to just come up.”

Zayn can feel his face splitting in two with the force of his smile. “You googled me? Aw, Lou…”

“I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

Zayn just shakes his head, grinning like an idiot before kissing Louis again.

And again.

And again.

And again.


End file.
